


there and back again

by slightlyraspberry



Category: The West Wing
Genre: First Meetings, Gen, Light Angst, Pre-Canon, basically sam has imposter syndrome, he is a Perfectionist, teenage crisis typa beat you know, this document is titled oof which i think tells you what you need to know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:21:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24356485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slightlyraspberry/pseuds/slightlyraspberry
Summary: "Okay, so maybe Sam is scared to go away. It’s just that he’s spent his whole life wanting to get out of goddamn Laguna Beach, and now that he is, and getting away toPrinceton, for God’s sake, it all seems a bit too good to be true and he won’t know anyone there and the writing’s just not good yet.Of course, he’s not going to tell Josh this."Sam and Josh meet at his graduation party.
Relationships: Josh Lyman & Sam Seaborn
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	there and back again

**Author's Note:**

> YES I am working through the fact that I am leaving for college and I hate my writing style and YES I am projecting on Sam Seaborn to make sense of it. Me and Sam are going thru it. Anyway this timeline could theoretically work I researched it more than I probably should have. Josh was never gonna be in this fic but I couldn't help myself

_1984_

It’s a nice party. Not really one that Sam wanted, no, but a nice party nonetheless. All of his parents’ friends are there—Sam notices that they didn’t bother to invite any of his friends, but he didn’t speak up about it, so he can’t really complain. He’s lonely, just standing there with a can of Coke in his hand, but it’s a nice party.

His mother had insisted on it. 

“It’s just what’s done,” she had said. So Sam said okay and now here he was feeling like a loiterer in his own backyard, having come to a stop by the shimmering pool after some reluctant mingling.

Everyone congratulated him. The party is really an excuse for his parents to show him off, and Sam’s just fine with this. He likes the praise, the momentary impressed surprise that flits across people’s faces when he tells them he’s going to Princeton. They say congratulations on the byline in the paper, that was a damn good article, son, or that trophy must have been bigger than you, and Sam smiles and says thanks a lot, I really appreciate it, like the kiss-ass he is, and basks in the warm light of approval.

He likes being congratulated, sure. But it rings hollow. What are they congratulating him for? His showing in debate wasn’t that good—that win was a team effort. Princeton’s not even the best school in the country—he has an asshole cousin who’s majoring in political science at Harvard. His writing is trite, cliche—really, it’s nothing to write home about. See? He’s even making cliches in his head. 

He knows that he is objectively wrong. He looks at the trophies, the framed newspaper clippings, all of the awards and the letter telling him that yes, he belongs at Princeton, and yes, his articles and speeches and essays show promise beyond compare or whatever. 

But when he brings himself to actually _read_ any of the things he’s written, Sam can’t see anything but what he did wrong. It’s unrefined, messy. He uses too many words, filling the gaps of empty rhetoric with useless imagery and shitty metaphors that any writer worth their (his or her, he reminds himself) salt would avoid like the plague. (Another cliche, he mentally notes). 

Put simply, it’s not good. He can’t enjoy the party, because his writing isn’t _there_ yet. He doesn’t know where _there_ is, exactly, but he knows he won’t be happy until he finds out. 

Maybe it’s just the heat. He’s sweating his balls off under the California sun, no breeze to speak of in July. He tugs at his collar and silently thanks his mom for not letting him wear the orange tie he bought just for the occasion. She was right—it aged him, and he would’ve been even hotter than he is now in his khakis and long sleeves. He takes a sip from his Coke and sees some relative or another approaching.

“Sam!” It’s his aunt. Shit, and the asshole cousin. Sam wonders why his uncle—the investment banker, he remembers—isn’t with them. There’s some young guy in his stead, following mindlessly behind the cousin.

“Sam, we’re so glad to be here,” she says. Her teeth have pink lipstick smeared on them. “Congratulations! I couldn’t believe it when I heard. Although you’re such a good writer, no one was really surprised. I mean, Princeton! Wow!” She swirls a glass of rosé in her conspicuously ring-free left hand.

“Thanks,” Sam says congenially. “I really appreciate it.” He smiles. He does appreciate it, really. His aunt didn’t have to come to this party—traffic would’ve been hell from L.A. 

He stops smiling when he sees his asshole cousin’s smug little face. What’s his name? Sam flips through his mind’s Rolodex until he lands on Randy. Or is it Ronny? No, Randy, that’s right, Randy Jr. and Aunt Susan. And formerly Uncle Randy Sr. But who’s this new guy? He couldn’t possibly be Susan’s new fling. But L.A. was different, that sort of thing was acceptable. No, no, Sam’s sure he isn’t. For one thing, he’s not nearly hot enough to be a sugar baby. Cute, sure, but Susan has different standards.

Sam doesn’t realize he’s staring until his cousin speaks. 

“Congratulations, Sammy,” Randy says, smirking. “New Jersey’s not bad. Not too far from Boston, either.” 

Sam gives an abrupt little chuckle that he’s sure sounds as fake as it feels. “Thanks, man. I’m excited. We’ll have to get coffee sometime.” God, he hopes he never has to see Randy again.

“Yeah, yeah.” Everyone looks just a little bit disinterested now, eyes wandering on the ground. Sam doesn’t think the new guy has looked at him once since Randy started talking. Aunt Susan takes a long sip from her glass. 

“So what are you studying?” This from the new guy. Sam still can’t puzzle out who he is. A friend of Randy’s?

“English,” Sam says. “I’ll probably go into law.” English and all that comes with it. Dickens and Woolf and Bronte and somebody get Sam out of here, he wants to be studying literature in the middle of goddamn New Jersey already.

“Don’t do it. Law school’s a trap.”

Okay, that’s uncalled for, but whatever. Who does this guy think he is? He’s too young to be an associate of his father’s, doesn’t look douchey enough to be a friend of Randy’s, so why is he standing by Sam’s pool at Sam’s party?

“Sorry, who are you, exactly?”

“This is Josh Lyman,” says Randy, patting the guy on the back with the hand not occupied by a beer. “Regular whiz kid. We’re working on the Greene campaign together.”

Josh grimaces. “Yeah. It’s too hot here.”

“He can’t wait to go back home to Connecticut,” Randy says conspiratorially to Sam. “But I got him this job. Might need to call in a favor someday, right, Joshua?”

“Uh-huh. Yeah,” says Sam. The levels of smarm Randy emits always surpass his expectations. “So are you going to law school with my cousin next year, Josh?”

Josh shakes his head. His little rectangular sunglasses slip down his nose. “Nah. I’m heading to Yale,” he says as he pushes them up. 

“Hmm,” Sam says. “Neat. Then D.C., I suppose?”

“Hopefully. Or maybe just more Californian state senate campaigns. Every man’s dream.”

Sam laughs a little at that, a real, genuine laugh. “Hey, gotta start somewhere, right?”

He notices that Aunt Susan has finished her glass of wine. She’s noticed too, apparently, because she starts moving away from Sam and toward the drinks.

“Anyway, Sam, it was good to see you!” she says. “I’m just going to dart off, here—uh, boys, I’ll see you later. Congratulations again, Sam.” 

“Wait, ma, lemme come with you,” Randy says as he puts down his empty bottle by the pool. Sam’s going to have to pick that up later, shit. And so Aunt Susan and asshole Randy leave but for some reason Josh doesn’t, and Sam is standing with his Coke just as lonely as he was before but now with some random lawyer guy he barely knows. He’d bet money that he’s secretly an asshole, though—no one who isn’t would willingly hang out with Randy.

They stand in less-than-companionable silence for what seems like hours but is probably less than a minute, sipping from their cold drinks on a hot day. Well, Sam assumes Josh’s is cold, at least. His is very lukewarm now.

“So why are you at this party?”

Josh looks up. “Randy said he had a hot cousin. I assume that’s not you.”

“Randy’s an asshole, and he was objectifying Angelica over there.” Sam points to Angie, who’s talking to his dad’s coworker’s wife or something (and he does understand why Randy brought Josh to this party just for her, it’s gross, but she’s really something). “Want me to introduce you?”

Josh, like the man he is, looks Angelica appreciatively up and down. Sam thinks he’s gonna have to stop the guy from wolf-whistling, but Josh snaps his gaze away from her.

“No, thanks. Can’t have any distractions—gotta grind my ass for Greene so I can work somewhere other than fucking Los Angeles after school.”

“That’s a good campaign slogan—Greene, grinding ass for L.A.”

Josh laughs. “Grinder of ass, maker of laws. Would look pretty good on a bumper sticker.”

“Hey, I have some political memorabilia that’s pretty rare. Wanna see?”

Josh perks up. Sam guesses he’s a sucker for political memorabilia. “You won’t be missed? It’s your party.”

Sam looks around at all of the adults he doesn’t really know, glances over at where his mother is chatting with her boss. Will he be missed? He concludes that it’ll probably be fine.

“I’ve got at least a half-hour before people start leaving and I need to show my face.”

So he takes this random Josh guy up to his room (and into the sweet, sweet air conditioning) and digs around in his desk drawers. Where did he put those buttons? He knows he wore one of them the other day, but for the life of him can’t remember where he squirreled it away. Or did the maid move it?

“Did you write this?” Josh asks, abruptly. Sam looks up from his rummaging. Josh is pointing to one of the framed clippings on his wall—the first time he was published somewhere other than the school lit mag. 

“Yeah. It’s not very good, though. The allusions don’t serve a purpose other than to make me look smarter than I am and it came out… well, it’s accusatory, which wasn’t the goal.”

“I’ve seen worse from an eighteen-year-old kid. Hell, I’ve written worse.”

Sam has returned to his rummaging. “It’s just… it’s just not _there_ yet.” His hand hits something hard and cold. “Yes! Found it!” He pulls out a little tin, rattling with the metal of several buttons of campaigns past their prime. Josh takes the tin from his hand and opens it. His fingers brush delicately over its contents before picking up a button to inspect more closely. 

“Wow,” he says. “You weren’t lying when you said pretty rare. This is…” Josh looks at the button, then thinks for a moment. “Congressional race of ‘52?”

“Yeah. The guy lost, but. It’s neat.” Sam pauses for a second. “Wait, how’d you know that?”

“I went to this little school in Boston where they teach you a lot of things. Where’d you learn to write like that?”

Sam shrugs. “I told you it’s not good. It’s not there yet, it’s missing… missing the point. It’s… ineffectual.”

“Well, effectual enough to get you into Princeton, anyway.” Josh puts the button down and keeps sifting through the tin. “You excited?” 

Sam sits down at his desk and picks up a pen to fiddle with. He’s focusing intently on the pen when he says, quietly, “I just want to get out of this damn town.”

Josh chuckles. “Yeah.”

“But I dunno,” Sam says, still looking at the pen. “I don’t think I can enjoy it until I get the writing right.”

“The writing’s good, Sam. I know I’ve only read one thing and known you for 20 minutes, but the writing’s good.”

“It’s not, though!” The pen clatters onto his desk—who knew a piece of plastic could be so loud from a few inches up?

“Sam,” Josh says cautiously. He puts the button he was examining back in the tin. “Are you sure you’re not just afraid?”

“Afraid? Of what, exactly, would I be afraid?” Sam asks. He picks up the pen again and fiddles with it once more. 

“Well. The distance, for one thing. The insufferable assholes you’re bound to meet, for another.”

“I’m not scared of a couple Randys.”

“You seem pretty afraid of what they’ll say about your writing.”

Okay, so maybe Sam is scared to go away. It’s just that he’s spent his whole life wanting to get out of goddamn Laguna Beach, and now that he is, and getting away to Princeton, for God’s sake, it all seems a bit too good to be true and he won’t know anyone there and the writing’s just not good yet. It’s not _there_. He has to get his writing there, to that unknowable place where he can read it without cringing, and he has to get it there before summer’s up.

Of course, he’s not going to tell Josh this. He just met the guy, and he’s wary of telling anything personal to someone Randy’s acquainted with. Instead, he puts the cap on the pen he’s been fiddling with and sets it down. 

“Maybe, Josh. Maybe.” He stands up. “I should get back to the— get back to the party. Stay as long as you like.”

Josh just looks at him. “It’s gonna be fine, Sam. Don’t worry about it.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” He’s almost out the door, veritable stranger still standing in his room, when Josh touches his shoulder. 

“Hey,” he says. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a wallet and digs through it before taking out a slightly wrinkled white card. “Here’s my card. Give me a call, you know, if you want to talk about law school. Or anything. If you need to shit on the Randys of the world.”

Sam takes the card. _Joshua Lyman, Yale Law School_ , it reads. There’s a number and address, too. “Thanks,” he says. “I’ll think about it.”

But he sticks the card in his pocket and doesn’t think about it, not really. Sam goes downstairs and doesn’t really think about Joshua Lyman, Yale Law School again until his senior year at Princeton.

It’s his first day on Florio’s campaign, and as he’s shown to a random desk with a phone his mind is really on his thesis, and how the hell is he going to find information on Gault goddamn you Sam why did you pick such a difficult topic, and he’s phoning people and writing his argument in his head when he sees Josh standing and talking to some higher-up who has somehow made his way into the office when Sam wasn’t looking. 

“Thank you for your time, ma’am,” Sam says, and then hangs up the phone. He pretends to look at the papers someone has put on his desk until Josh has finished his conversation.

“Josh?” he calls hesitantly. Josh looks up and around. He looks older, weary with the stress of a juris doctor. But then, Sam thinks, he probably looks a lot older too. He knows he’s grown into himself, brushed off the teenaged insecurities he had when he and Josh first met. Finally, Josh’s eyes land on him and Sam sees a spark of recognition.

“Hey!” Josh says as he walks over to Sam’s little workspace. “Randy’s cousin. The writer. Princeton, right?”

“Yeah,” Sam says. “Yeah, working on my thesis now. You finished law school, then?”

Josh nods. “And here I am now, playing with the big boys.”

“Well, it’s not exactly Washington, D.C.,” Sam says.

Josh shrugs. “You gotta start somewhere. I’m helping the campaign manager, so I feel pretty good about New Jersey.” This gets a laugh out of Sam. “How’s the writing going? Did you find a way to make it good?”

Sam pauses. He thinks about his junior paper on Dickens and total turnaround into his senior thesis on conlaw, and all of the essays and articles he’s written in between. He’s been trying to get there for four years now, and it’s an impressive volume of work, if he does say so himself. But is it good?

“I think so, Josh,” he says. “I think I’m finally there.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was really just a way for me to work through my own issues and indulge in how much I love sam. It's not samjosh bc age differences but it has the potential to be if I continue this universe. thanks for reading, kudos and comment if you liked! oh also florio and greene are real politicians from the era and area, governor and state senator respectively. I love Historical Accuracy (to a point) anyway hmu on tumblr @slightlyraspberry or twitter @samseabxrn!


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